Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(8)

But as though he could feel Kyrnon’s gaze on it, the Kingmaker moved his hands out of sight.

“About three years ago, the painting was loaned to the Cinquantenaire Museum in Brussels. Not even a week later, the museum was robbed, but the only thing stolen was my painting.” The Kingmaker flattened his hands on the desk, seeming lost in the past as he rambled on. “For the better part of six months, I tried to find the men responsible—or any information at all about the theft, but nothing. No one knew anything. And believe me when I say people do not want to not have an answer for me.”

Before he could say anything more, Kyrnon asked a question of his own. “What was the name of it, your painting?”

“L’amant Flétrie—The Withered Lover.”

Casting his mind back to his own whereabouts around that time, Kyrnon tensed. He remembered that painting—it had been showcasing in a gallery that he was frequenting when he had been in Brussels around the same time. Though he hadn’t been in the country for more than a few hours, the Kingmaker could easily think that.

“Oh, don’t worry, Kyrnon,” the Kingmaker said with a laugh. “I know you weren’t responsible—you were busy handling that job with the banker, no? The men responsible, I’ve already handled them, personally. You’re here now because you are, quite frankly, one of the best at what you do.”

“Right.” Kyrnon cleared his throat, scratching at the hair on his jaw. “What exactly are you asking me to steal? What’s the job?”

“L’amant Flétrie,” the Kingmaker repeated. “You see, three years ago when I was prying the fingernails off one of the thieves’ body, he wouldn’t tell me who hired him for the job. By the end of it all—and this went on for hours, mind you—he, nor his partner, were willing to give up who contracted them. However, their silence told me something their lack of words had not—they feared their boss more than they feared me.”

The Kingmaker’s tone had changed, darkened, a barely concealed rage coloring his words. “Even as I offered them death in exchange for an end to their suffering, they remained silent. Nevertheless, though it took some years, I finally found the man responsible.”

Elias.

It finally clicked. Now it made sense, why the Kingmaker had only asked Red to find a name, and not do anything more. Obviously the man was capable—he had been able to elude the Kingmaker for three years. Kyrnon had witnessed that day in the park when the man in question had brutally murdered his associate because of a slight the man made. More impressive was how Elias had been able to have the scene cleaned in less than ten minutes.

At the moment, Kyrnon couldn’t decide who would be the worst enemy to have between the pair.

“Whether his arrogance precedes him is still in question, but my painting is up for auction in a few weeks here in New York though I know not where. The location is a carefully guarded secret apparently.”

And it had to be a good one if the Kingmaker still didn’t know.

“And you want me to retrieve it?” That word sounded far better than ‘steal.’ “Wouldn’t it be flagged, considering it’s been stolen before?”

Kyrnon didn’t mind taking risks—that was his job after all—but sometimes that same risk wasn’t worth the hassle. He had learned the hard way about trying to complete impossible tasks, especially when he’d had to escape from a prison in south Sudan for trying to smuggle blood diamonds—that weren’t actually blood diamonds he had grown to learn—out of the country.

“Let’s just say that the painting’s theft was never reported, nor did the curator of the museum feel the need to inform anyone of what had taken place there, with the exception of myself, of course.”

Kyrnon knew what that meant. Either the curator was dead, or he had been paid a large sum of money to disappear.

“So, yes, I want you to return what belongs to me, but I also need you to find out how it got into the country in the first place. I have it on good authority that after last month’s unpleasantries, Elias is not in the country presently. And considering I have men everywhere, I’m surprised that I have just learned of its presence here.”

“And when I find out?”

The Kingmaker looked to him, his gaze rapt. “Shut it down. Whatever it takes. Can you handle that?”

Kyrnon nodded. “I’ll see it done.”

“Excellent. I presume you still take payment in the form of gold?”

Kyrnon didn’t mind wire transfers, or briefcases full of cash, but he rather enjoyed accepting payment in the form of jewels and gold. There was just something tangible about it, as opposed to just numbers on a screen.

But then, he also liked shiny things.

“Aye.”

“Your payment will be waiting at the usual drop location. Also …” the Kingmaker pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers, sliding it across the desk toward him. “The gallery, Cedar Art, is in Greenwich Village. I suggest you start there.”

Slipping the note into his pocket, Kyrnon nodded. “Why here?”

“Its owner, Elliot Hamilton, received a phone call from a man named Gabriel Monte. To you, he’s no one, for men like me, he’s a smuggler. Capable of moving just about anything in a short period of time. I’m sure you can understand my meaning without me having to spell it out.”